i swear we're rarely at ease
with the way we push doors to new experiences
kissing on public property isn't illegal
but the nerve of the act thrills me just as much

parking lots are often not the site
for love birds deprived of merry lip locking
but we paint them red better
than an arsonist with a burning passion
can shade his buildings black

i wish i could watch that night
play itself once more
on a lofty screen just for us
while we do it perhaps again--

the way i took your form
and made it rest against a certain sedan...
the way i kissed you then
while my body leaned on yours...
the way we held that kiss
despite the bustling of the city night...
the way you looked at me
when we paused for a moment's sake...

i could tell you were so ******* high
(and im sure you could tell i was too)

We've all had turns throwing words off board:
a certain few drift some two shifts of blue
before swiftly sinking out of their own accord.
Others yet lift themselves in further pursuit
of barren waterways yet to be oared.
But a tiny handful have yet to continue
their ongoing flight to the edges of the world...
And still most words end up sunken--
as nothing more but lost conversations.

is it just me
or is the thought of shared death
a truly romantic affair?

and i don't mean
to die together
of old age...

to fall in each other's arms
following an overdose of *****
while we slip six feet under
listening to the smiths--

"and if a double-decker bus
crashes into us
to die by your side
is such a heavenly way to die"

i wanna die together
with our lips locked in an embrace
while we swing back and forth
across an empty ballroom floor

"and if a ten ton truck
kills the both of us
to die by your side
is such a heavenly way to die"

is it just me
or am i ****** up?

(at least then
you'd be the last thing
i see)

you'd lie on my lap
with nothing much to say
and there i'd bend
to meet your wandering gaze...
the rain, however light,
would feign tears on your face
tears i'd pretend
betrayed a sense of elation--
had they been yours
i would've cried just the same.

surely, i say,
that day's a purple aster
in my garden patch of greys,
a haughty little lamppost
along an awry little highway...

that day was
(and i'd say it again,
without thinking about lifting
the spout tipping my pen)
a lovely day, a ten outta ten

she says im rather quaint:
and indeed it's true;
for i speak in quite an olden way...
but i mean not to say i despise the styles of the modern man.

id like to think i was raised
under the class of formal lex
and the slack of millennial typing--
ironic, but eh idfk.

we wouldve waltzed then and there...
the sky and its thousand eyes
would bear witness to that spectacle of a moment:
a trade of footsteps and a synchrony of motion--

we'd wonder why
despite being lost in each other's eyes
we could render such a dynamic embrace
and paint the night a rosy red hue...

i say that perhaps then
the goddess of love
has taken the wheel.

i hate being uncertain about certain things
especially so when it's 'em hurtin things
but as a writing frenchman once penned

"Of course I'll hurt you
Of course you'll hurt me
Of course we will hurt each other
But this is the very condition of existence
To become spring means accepting the risk of winter..."

and with all winters
warm rosy summers lie ahead.